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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345031">wherever i'm with you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cv_angels/pseuds/cv_angels'>cv_angels</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Temporary Character Death, and by non-graphic i mean one or two passing lines, please don't ask for any time frames or real history here, sort of???</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:00:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cv_angels/pseuds/cv_angels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Grantaire had told his parents he was taking a gap year, or several, they had been worried. Grantaire had assured them that it wouldn’t be forever, he just needed some time to find himself, and they’d relented. He doesn’t need to find himself. After countless lifetimes, there is very little about himself that he doesn’t know. No, Grantaire is looking for someone else.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Reincarnation AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Enjoltaire Games 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wherever i'm with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? – Stephanie Perkins</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Title from "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire is eighteen years, three months, and three days old when he leaves his parents’ home in Vermont. They drop him off at the airport with a teary goodbye and a promise that he’ll call as soon as he lands and once a week thereafter. His mother pulls him into a tight hug, and his dad clasps his hand warmly, and then he’s on a plane to Paris. For the first time in three months and three days, he can breathe.</p><p>When Grantaire had told his parents he was taking a gap year, or several, they had been worried. He’d only just turned eighteen, and college was looming, and shouldn’t he be putting some thought into his future? Grantaire had assured them that it wouldn’t be forever, he just needed some time to find himself, and they’d relented. Grantaire leans his head against the window and stares at the ground below. He doesn’t need to find himself. After countless lifetimes, there is very little about himself that he doesn’t know. No, Grantaire is looking for someone else.</p><p>The plane lurches onto the tarmac, and the passengers disembark. Grantaire stares at the baggage carousel as it rotates endlessly. He’s still, admittedly, not quite used to airports. The Charles de Gaulle is loud, and there are far too many people crowding up to wrest their bags off the conveyer. Far preferable to ships or horses or <em>walking</em>, but Grantaire had hoped that in the last eighteen years someone would have found a way to make airports more pleasant. Grantaire snatches his duffle when it comes around and makes his way into the Parisian night.</p><p>It’s not far, his destination, but the walk clears his head. No matter how many times he does this, there’s always a thread of worry undercutting the excitement: what if he’s imagined the whole thing, or what if it’s different than he remembers? The trouble with reincarnation, with being alive over and over again for longer than most civilizations, is that there are very few people with shared life experiences. It’s all some great mystery.</p><p>Grantaire hardly remembers the first life now. With all the years that have followed, there isn’t much remarkable about the first, aside from it being so. It comes to him, sometimes, in passing flashes.  </p><p>
  <em> Grantaire is young. His life is simple, but it’s his. He’s a vagabond, drifting, hardly spending any time in one place. Until he meets him. The man is a vision, the brightest sun Grantaire has ever seen, so intensely golden that Grantaire is sure the gods themselves would come down off their pedestals and call him Apollo. This man, this god, this creature of Grantaire’s ideation hardly notices as Grantaire is pulled into his orbit. When they fall beside each other on the battlefield, Grantaire thinks that’s the end of it. </em>
</p><p>It took them all a few lives to understand. They were born uninhibited, to countless mothers who would become faceless with time. On their eighteenth birthdays, they would remember each past life with sudden clarity. Eventually, they would be drawn together, and sometimes they would drift apart again. And then they would die, often young, sometimes painfully, always within the same five-month span. Combeferre once devoted several lifetimes to tracking these phenomena, these rules that govern whatever it is that ties them all back to the earth and to each other, but made little progress in learning anything more.</p><p>Whether by blessing or by curse, their thirteen lives are permanently entwined: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, Cosette, Marius, Eponine, Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly. And Enjolras. Enjolras, who has been the star around which Grantaire orbits for as long as he’s lived. Enjolras, who is charming and beautiful and righteous. Enjolras, who Grantaire loves with whatever pieces of a soul he has. It’s been eighteen years, three months, and three days since Grantaire last saw Enjolras, and he misses him like a limb.</p><p>Grantaire’s feet carry him to the doors of the Musain, as they always do. The building’s façade has hardly changed with the years, though Grantaire can see small touchups in the paint that weren’t there the last time he was here. Musichetta must already have arrived; she usually doesn’t allow her other staff to make any changes. Though the Musain stood open in Paris for a few hundred years on its own, Musichetta took ownership several lifetimes ago and has maintained it since. In the years between death and remembering, she has a staff hired by a legal agency that runs the establishment in her stead and cedes ownership back to her when she returns. (Musichetta says she leaves a question that must be asked to determine her identity. When Grantaire asked, Bossuet had responded with an affronted, <em>a lady never tells</em>, while Musichetta smiled wickedly. <em>Last time, it was the shape of the birthmark on Joly’s left thigh</em>, she answered, and Joly had flushed deeply and buried his head in his hands. Grantaire decided it was a good time to stop asking questions).</p><p>Grantaire takes a breath and pushes his way inside. The Musain has been a bar for the past while (and before that, a coffee shop and then a restaurant. Musichetta gets bored if the Musain is one thing for too long), so it’s a quiet afternoon. There are only two other people: a young man sitting at the bar and the bartender with whom he is conversing. They both turn as the door opens, and Grantaire grins as he recognizes them. They look slightly different, as they do each time, but Courfeyrac’s blinding smile is as infectious as ever as he hops off the barstool and pulls Grantaire into a tight embrace.</p><p>“Good to see you, R!” Bahorel calls as he finishes wiping down the bar top.</p><p>“Joly arrived yesterday, so he,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing vaguely over at Bahorel, “Offered to watch the bar to give Chetta and Bossuet the day off. Eponine and Cosette are around too, somewhere, and Marius already sent a letter saying he won’t be here for several months at least. Haven’t heard from anyone else, but we’ve still got some time before it starts to get concerning, so.”</p><p>Grantaire allows Courfeyrac to drag him over to the bar and regale him with stories of his childhood and his schooling, and <em>can you believe, Grantaire</em> that his parents wanted him to take over the family farm in Catalonia? Bahorel pours him a glass of red Bordeaux (and god, how he’s missed French wine), and Grantaire lets the stab of disappointment upon learning of Enjolras’ absence fade for the moment. After all, Enjolras is nothing if not reliable. He’ll arrive soon, or else send a letter apologizing for the delay.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Over the next months, their rag-tag group assembles. Combeferre arrives next, a week after Grantaire, and then Feuilly a few days later. Jehan sweeps in at the end of the month with another letter from Marius, who he had managed to run into on his way through Dublin. Marius’ grandfather has taken ill, and he feels he cannot leave his father to bear the loss alone.</p><p>The days creep by for Grantaire as everyone settles around Paris. They all have residences in the area, and it has become a rule of theirs to stay close until everyone has been accounted for. Grantaire spends most of his time down in the Musain or out exploring the Parisian streets as he waits and avoids the small apartment across the square as much as possible. The apartment has been in Grantaire’s name for decades courtesy of the same agency that represents the Musain, but whatever comfort he usually takes from the familiar walls and furniture is leeched by the absence of the space’s other usual fixture.</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire throws the door open, shaking snow from his hair and tossing his boots haphazardly at the closet. Enjolras follows, placing his own boots neatly on the waterproof mat and nudging Grantaire’s until they’re no longer pooling water onto the hardwood. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve got coffee in here somewhere if you want,” Grantaire says as he makes his way into the kitchen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras sighs, glancing out the window at the flurrying snow. “I can stay for one, but then I have to leave.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What if you didn’t?” Grantaire blurts without thinking. He’s glad his back is to Enjolras so the other man can’t see the grimace that crosses his face as he stares down the mug in his hands. It’s something he’s been meaning to bring up for a while but hasn’t had the courage to outright say. Until now, apparently. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I could stay the night,” Enjolras says, “But the storm is supposed to get worse tomorrow so it will be easier to cross town tonight.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire could let that be the end of it. Let Enjolras think he’d meant this one evening, but he’s been meaning to ask and now seems as good a time as any. </em>
</p><p><em> “No, I mean not go back at all.” Grantaire closes his eyes as he speaks, not daring to turn around. “I mean, I guess you’d have to go back to get your things and bring them here, so I don’t mean not </em> ever <em> going back but – ”</em></p><p>
  <em> “Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts before Grantaire can continue to spiral. “Are you asking me to move in with you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes?” Grantaire says, hoping the back of the cupboard can give him some confidence as he studies it intently. “We’re, you know, together a lot of the time anyway, and it doesn’t make sense to pay for two apartments, and we’ve lived together before, but I understand if you want to keep your own space; that’s totally fine and makes a lot of sense, actually, forget I even brought it – ” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “R,” Enjolras interrupts again, and Grantaire almost jumps as he places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Look at me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire turns. He can see the curl of a smile on Enjolras’ lips just before he’s pulled into a searing kiss. When they break apart, Grantaire’s face is flushed and his chest is heaving and Enjolras is still grinning at him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That’s a yes, by the way.” </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>   </p><p>Grantaire doesn’t know when restlessness becomes outright panic, but Marius arrives, late by a month as he said he’d be, and Enjolras is still absent. Hasn’t written, or called, or otherwise let any of them know that he’s alright. Or that he’s alive, but the thought of the alternative terrifies Grantaire enough that he refuses to entertain it.</p><p> “It’s probably fine,” Joly says as Grantaire’s face falls in disappointment when the man who steps through the door to the Musain is decidedly not Enjolras. “<em>He’s</em> probably fine.”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Grantaire mutters into his drink. He’s been haunting the bar the past few days, claiming a table nestled toward that back that still has a view of the door.</p><p>“I know that sitting here alone won’t make him come any faster.” Despite his words, Joly’s head also whips around as the door opens again.</p><p>It’s not Enjolras, but Courfeyrac. He tosses his jacket onto the rack by the door and makes his way back to Grantaire and Joly. He slumps into an empty seat, swiping a swig of Grantaire’s merlot as he does.</p><p>“No sign of him, I assume?” he asks, taking in Grantaire’s several empty glasses and the napkin that Joly is steadily shredding into pieces.</p><p>“If there was, I wouldn’t be drinking myself to death in the corner of a bar,” Grantaire bites, more sarcastic than he intended, but he’s in no mood to apologize. Joly deliberately moves his wine to the other side of the table, and Courfeyrac just raises an eyebrow. Grantaire sighs. “Where’s Combeferre? You guys have been attached at the hip since he got back.”</p><p>It’s Courfeyrac’s turn to sigh. “Ferre’s not taking this whole thing well either. He was up all night trying to figure out what he might have missed last time he studied our whole thing. I told him that sometimes I remember in flashes instead of all at once, and now his leading theory is that Enjolras’ full memory is delayed somehow. Not sure that makes sense, since it’s never taken me more than a few days to get everything, but I guess it’s possible.”</p><p>Grantaire’s never considered that. “So he could have gone somewhere else?”</p><p>“Or he hasn’t gone anywhere yet,” Courfeyrac shrugs.</p><p>The restlessness is back under Grantaire’s skin. His own memory has always come back all at once, in order, but he thinks if he remembered just pieces, he’d still have left home to try to make sense of them.</p><p>Grantaire stands abruptly. “I need to look for him.”</p><p>“Grantaire,” Joly says, grabbing his arm before he can bolt. “Where would you even begin to look?”</p><p>And, well, Grantaire doesn’t know. He knows where an Enjolras in possession of all his memories would go, but the countless years of life create countless places of meaning. Grantaire could start at the beginning, but if Enjolras is remembering in fragments, there’s no reason that it should be chronological. And if he <em>is</em> remembering in order, Grantaire doesn’t know if that Enjolras would even acknowledge or tolerate him.</p><p>“Joly, I can’t just stay here.”</p><p>Joly’s grip tightens for a moment, then he lets go. “I’ll let you know if he comes back here. Make sure you call every once in a while, okay?”</p><p>“And leave notes or something,” Courfeyrac adds. “In case he remembers a place after you’ve already been there. I’ll talk to Combeferre, see if he’s come up with anything else. We’ll probably start looking too.”</p><p>Grantaire nods absently and then goes. If Enjolras is out there, he’ll find him. He has to.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thing about Grantaire and Enjolras is that they haven’t always been Grantaire <em>and</em> Enjolras. For a while, it was Grantaire <em>and over there, </em>Enjolras. Enjolras was full of conviction and hope and justice, and it didn’t matter how many times he was killed for it. If there is one constant in everything, it is that Enjolras will fight for the downtrodden. To the death, mostly. Early on, dissension was largely met with violence, and the thirteen of them would fall, and somehow, every one of them would commit to doing it all over again. Except, after enough times, Grantaire. So then it became Grantaire <em>antagonizing</em> Enjolras.  </p><p>
  <em> “Where were you?” Enjolras demands as he stands in the open doorway to Grantaire’s house. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire blinks up at him from his chair, a bottle dangling from his fingers. “I will admit to surprise that you even took note of my absence. I have been here, drowning my woes.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You have been gifted immortality, and this is how you use it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And Grantaire, against all good sense, laughs. “Perhaps I do not think it a gift. What would you have me do? The world does not change, so why try to change it? I am far better here where at least I can forget my endless existence, if only for a moment.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cold fury twists Enjolras’ face. “The world does not change because people like you refuse to take any responsibility.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Doubtful,” Grantaire says, turning away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t see Enjolras go, only hears his parting blow: “The Romans will be here soon. For your sake, I pray they kill you quickly.” </em>
</p><p>There are no houses here anymore. Grantaire stares up at a bank in Trier, and wonders why he thought there would be. They’d all lived in the same small neighborhood, and it had all been decimated by time and replaced with a sprawling monument to German capitalism. Trier, or Treuorum as he remembers it, had never been particularly cozy, but as he steps into the white marble of the bank, it feels somehow less welcoming than ever. His eyes scan the patrons assembled, but none of them are familiar.</p><p>“This might not make much sense,” Grantaire says in broken German when he reaches the service desk, “But could you keep this here for me? It’s for a young man named Enjolras who might stop by.”</p><p>The woman takes the letter from him, sealed and carefully printed with Enjolras’ name, and smiles in delight. “A lover’s scavenger hunt?”</p><p>“Of a sort.” Grantaire’s returning smile is closer to a grimace. He steps out of the bank into the sun and feels cold.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grantaire spends the next few months traveling around the world. Any place he can remember being significant in some way to Enjolras, he goes. He probably should have made a list at the start, but he doesn’t think he would have thought of everything at once. It’s like opening boxes within his own mind – he goes to one location, and then remembers three more in reasonably close vicinity. He leaves letters everywhere, but he doesn’t really think they’ll make a difference. Most of them likely end up in a trash bin as soon as his back is turned.</p><p>In the Czech Republic, he crosses a stretch of land that used to hold a series of small cottages. In China, he sits at a busy intersection that was once a row of houses. The farmhouse in South Africa is still there, but it’s larger now, more commercial. These places are all so familiar, but somehow so different that Grantaire barely recognizes them at all.</p><p>They’re all significant in some way. Amsterdam, where Grantaire finally rejoined the group, hesitant at first but allowing them, allowing Enjolras, to reel him in with words of hope and future. Lima, where Courfeyrac had locked him and Enjolras in the meeting room together, and they had their first honest conversation in decades. Edenborough, where he and Enjolras were able to reconcile their differences and actually work together, despite Grantaire’s cynicism and Enjolras’ unwavering faith in change. Lucerne, where Grantaire and Enjolras actually became friends.</p><p>The other thing about Grantaire and Enjolras, is that it’s always, <em>always </em>been Grantaire <em>loves</em> Enjolras. Even when they were at odds, something in Grantaire wanted to believe in Enjolras’ spark. Wanted to believe that the world would listen. Grantaire may have had a terrible way of showing it, but even when he believed in nothing else, he believed in Enjolras. He still does. And so he leaves a letter in each place, with just enough details for Enjolras to recognize him and where to go, but not so many as to alert curious travelers or the media. He leaves the letters, and he hopes. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grantaire doesn’t know how he feels about America. This life, he has the kinship of being born in the country, though Vermont is a distant thought in the back of his mind. He’s never been very good about keeping up with his blood family in any given life. It’s always a parade of different faces that will fade with time. Perhaps he should put more effort in – Jehan has a growing list of graves to visit – but he can’t bring himself to care about people he’ll lose, over and over.</p><p>America as a nation is loud and overly friendly and too much, a lot of the time. But America was also where Grantaire and Enjolras became Grantaire <em>and </em>Enjolras. Where the near-death of the revolution had clicked some final piece into place after centuries, and they’d moved into a townhouse in Connecticut and lived to see the end of a major conflict.</p><p>The townhouse is in a protected neighborhood now, a historical district that has been marketed for tourists. Their identities have been reduced to nameless revolutionaries, but there is a stream of people gawking at the worn brick as though it will tell them secrets. Grantaire could tell them those secrets, but he won’t. Everything that happened in that townhouse was for him and Enjolras, and no one else.</p><p><em> Sunlight streams in through the window, warming Grantaire’s face. The war is over, and somehow, miraculously, they won. England retreated and the colonies </em> won <em>. Grantaire burrows deeper under the covers, into Enjolras’ arms. It’s been a month since they were ordered home, but Grantaire has to keep reminding himself that it’s truly done.</em></p><p>
  <em> Enjolras stirs, blinking awake. He’s awash with gold, and Grantaire can’t believe how lucky he is to be beside him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We should get up,” Enjolras murmurs, voice rough from sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire groans. “I’m not the one who volunteered to help rebuild the nation.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No. But you’ll help anyway. And then when France is ready, we’ll go help them too.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras extracts himself from Grantaire and presses a kiss to his forehead. Grantaire pointedly rolls over and buries himself under the pillows. He’d like to revel in a victory, for once, but Enjolras has never known the meaning of rest. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “There will be breakfast downstairs if you ever decide to get up,” Enjolras laughs. “We have work to do.” </em>
</p><p>Grantaire sticks his letter in a windowsill as he leaves. It probably won’t last, will probably get removed by an employee or some curious gawker, but he leaves it nonetheless. He stares at the second-story window on the left side and waits for some flicker, some yearning for this place, but is left wanting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This has been a bad life for Grantaire. Watching France overthrow the monarchy only for it to rise again so soon is too much. He’s tired, and every time he watches Enjolras speak to the group with righteous fire, he knows in his gut that none of it matters. He wanted to think he’d gotten past this ugly sort of cynicism, but he knows it’s always there, buried just far enough under his usual bullshit for him to ignore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he drinks, and he mocks, and he messes up too many times in too many ways. When he wakes and no one’s left but Enjolras, when he realizes the cynicism is justified, this time, he feels sick. He can’t bring himself to look for anyone else, just knows that he doesn’t want to die alone. Doesn’t want Enjolras to die alone, either. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire stumbles in front of the Guard to meet his death standing. Long live the revolution; he is one of them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He tangles his fingers with Enjolras’. An apology. Enjolras squeezes his hand in return. An acceptance. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I would hope,” Musichetta says, leaning on the bar next to Grantaire, “That if he remembered the Corinthe, he would come here too.”</p><p>Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know, Chetta. It just felt like a place to be.”</p><p>Musichetta swirls the small plastic sword around her cocktail slowly, ice clinking. Bossuet’s been inventing new drinks in his downtime, and Musichetta, ever the patient partner, has agreed to try each one when he’s manning the bar and she’s off. She takes a tentative sip and grimaces.</p><p>“Is that where you think he’ll be? Somewhere that feels right?”</p><p>“He has to be somewhere,” Grantaire says desperately. “And I keep thinking, he’ll go <em>home</em>, but I’m not sure I even know what that means. I keep going places I think I could define as home, and none of them are anything anymore.”</p><p>“And the Corinthe?”</p><p>Grantaire stares down the bar to where Bossuet is laughing as he mixes something for a cheerful young couple, looks out at the booths where Combeferre sits with Feuilly. He and Courfeyrac had spent some time traveling as well, but after finding nothing, had decided to wait for Enjolras at the Musain with the others.</p><p>“I missed you guys. Thought I’d at least check it out while I was in the area.”</p><p>Musichetta tips to rest her head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’ve missed you too, R.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The flat in London looks nothing like it once did. It’s a towering structure now, with ten floors at least, made of sleek, modern paneling. It’s black and silver all the way up, nothing like the tiny brick building of years past. Londoners in equally sleek suits walk in and out of the doors, coming and going from jobs and appointments and life. Grantaire sits on a small bench and watches them.   </p><p><em> “You would not believe the </em> audacity <em> of some people.”</em></p><p>
  <em> Grantaire is fuming. He kicks the door shut behind him and tosses his bag in the direction of the table. Enjolras blinks up at him from the armchair by the window. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I likely would,” Enjolras says slowly, setting his book aside. “But I thought you were just at the museum with Cosette?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I was,” Grantaire confirms, making his way into the small kitchen. “And it was lovely, mostly, except they have this grand new exhibit that just opened to the public, called ‘Brothers in Arms.’ Which sounds nice, you know, exploring camaraderie in conflict through a lens of art and writing and such. They have all these artifacts that depict all these wars and stories of war, through centuries.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A mixing bowl clatters onto the counter, followed by flour and sugar. Grantaire yanks open the sack of flour with enough force to send a small plume into the air. Enjolras leans against the counter beside him, far enough away to be out of the range of the mess. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We weren’t in it, were we?” Enjolras asks. </em>
</p><p><em> “What? No. No, the main attraction in this exhibit was an entire section Achilles and Patroclus. A whole collection of beautiful art and exceptionally old copies of the </em> Iliad, <em>and accounts of how the story had influenced history thereafter. Which would be wonderful, except this is the </em>Brothers<em> in Arms exhibit and every single artifact had a long note from a historian about what good </em>friends<em> they were, how Achilles mourned Patroclus as one would their </em>sibling<em>. And really, I know we’ve gone backward on some things in regard to relationships as time has gone, but to examine that entire era and all come to the conclusion that Achilles and Patroclus were anything but lovers? Ludicrous. And when I asked the curator about it, he told me that perhaps I should reread the text because I </em>must not have understood it<em>. And so then I said that Homer would want –”</em></p><p>
  <em> “You were not acquainted with Homer,” Enjolras interrupts, and Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice. </em>
</p><p><em> “Irrelevant. This is an injustice, Enjolras! So after a very detailed discussion on relations in Greece at the time, the curator asked me to </em> leave <em>. Without so much as an acknowledgment of his error!” Grantaire turns away from the bowl to retrieve two eggs from the box on the counter.</em></p><p>
  <em> “So you were dealt this injustice, and the solution is…baking?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Cosette and Marius have yet to install an oven in their home, so I promised her cookies. I should see that through before I am imprisoned for breaking into and defacing a museum exhibit. Enjolras, why are you looking at me like that?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras’ face has softened, a gentle smile curling the edges of his lips. “I’m in love with you,” he says simply. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The eggs crack against the floor, shells scattering in pieces on the tile. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve thought it for some time,” Enjolras continues, heedless of the fact that Grantaire’s entire world has stopped. “And I just wanted you to know.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras steps into Grantaire’s space, waiting. After perhaps too long, Grantaire recovers enough to do more than stare. He cups Enjolras’ cheek. His hand is absolutely coated in flour, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve loved you for centuries, Enjolras.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sorry it took me so long to catch up,” Enjolras says and then drags Grantaire into a kiss. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sometime later, Enjolras draws away. The kitchen is still in disarray, flour dusting the countertops, the floor, each of them. Grantaire has never been more in love. Enjolras tangles their fingers together and beams. </em>
</p><p><em> “I love you, R,” he says. “I’m in love with you. And, should you need it, I will gladly help you break into the British Museum.” </em>   </p><p>Grantaire doesn’t know how long he sits there. His letter to Enjolras is twisted into near-unrecognizability, the paper curled around his fingers. He takes a moment to smooth it out against the edge of the bench. It’s still horribly crumpled, but it will be legible. He hands the letter to the concierge with the barest explanation and doesn’t look back.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They did grow old, once. Grantaire stands in front of the small cottage in rural Italy, a bit surprised to see it still standing. He was sure it would get demolished to expand the sprawling vineyard on the hillside behind it, but here it stands, ivy crawling up the worn gray stone and small red flowers poking up from the window boxes.</p><p>“Can I help you dear?” a heavily accented voice asks, startling Grantaire.</p><p>He turns to see an aging woman smiling kindly at him, a paper bag of groceries in her arms. She’d spoken English, must have sized him up, taken in the ratty backpack, and assumed tourist. Not that she was wrong, exactly. This version of him wasn’t from anywhere near here, but a part of him still remembers each crooked cobblestone on the walkway with a familiarity only born from years.</p><p>“Just passing through,” Grantaire answers in Italian. He’s a bit out of practice, the American in him butchering the vowels, but the words are there all the same.  “I used to know someone who lived here.”</p><p>The woman beams at him and switches to her native tongue. “Come in, please. My daughter is away for the week, and I would enjoy the company.”</p><p>Grantaire nods, reaching out to help the woman with her bags. He learns that her name is Ada, that she’s lived in these hills her entire life but didn’t move to this town, this cottage until after her daughter was born. It had stood empty for some years prior, so she and her late husband bought it for cheap and fixed it into a home. When she asks about Grantaire’s relation, he makes a non-committal comment about great grandparents.</p><p>Grantaire spends several hours in Ada’s company, helping her with dinner, sharing the meal with her when they’re done. She’s kind and patient, and Grantaire thinks he does a reasonable job of staying engaged in the conversation, but he keeps looking around the small kitchen and seeing Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras is leaning against the counter when Grantaire stumbles through the door, brandishing a newly purchased bottle of Montepulciano. Enjolras rolls his eyes as he continues to sort the mail, but Grantaire can see the corners of his mouth curled up in the beginnings of a smile. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We have a letter from Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says. “He sends his regards and kindly requests that you don’t drink yourself into an early grave.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Latest grave yet,” Grantaire mutters under his breath as he tugs the cork from the bottle with a pop. Louder, he says, “If I wasn’t meant to drink, God would not have created the grape and deposited me in a home beside a vineyard.” He pours two glasses, his own significantly fuller than Enjolras’. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras just laughs and takes a sip of the wine, careful not to spill on any of the letters. “This is good,” he says with some surprise. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grantaire grins. He knows most of what he brings home is bottom of the barrel – he’s acquired a taste for it – but he’s also willing to indulge. “One of the best years for wine on record, and this batch was just pulled from the cellars. The vintner saved a bottle for us.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “For you.” </em>
</p><p><em> “For </em> Us <em>,” Grantaire repeats, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ temple where his golden hair has silvered with age, and then leaning in to taste the wine from Enjolras’ lips. Enjolras lets him take the wine glass from between his fingers and pull him close, spinning them in a messy waltz around the small kitchen.</em></p><p>
  <em> “Is there an occasion?” Enjolras asks after their wide circles slow into gentle swaying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enjolras is beautiful. His eyes are crinkled with joy, crows’ feet creasing the corners and smile lines deepening across his face. His hands where they clasp Grantaire’s are calloused from time, and Grantaire knows his are the same. He’s never before been able to love Enjolras like this, with the years visible in his gray hair and delicate wrinkles, and Grantaire’s heart aches with it. He wants this, again and again and again. Wants to grow old with Enjolras every lifetime, wants years and years and years. He doesn’t know if it will ever happen again. He wants to make this one count. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Does a man need an occasion to treat his lover?” Grantaire responds jovially, resting his forehead against Enjolras’. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I suppose not,” Enjolras says and closes the distance between their mouths. </em>
</p><p>When Grantaire leaves the small Italian town, he feels empty. He has a vague recollection of bidding Ada goodbye, of giving her his last letter, of promising to visit again if he’s ever passing through, but his main focus is on breathing past the rock lodged in his chest and keeping the burning behind his eyes at bay.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know why I thought I could find him,” Grantaire slurs. He’s drunk and he’s sad and Joly’s lap makes a far better pillow than it has any right to. “I’ve checked everywhere and nothing. No sign of him, except it’s all signs of him but no <em>actual</em> him.”</p><p>Joly’s fingers card through Grantaire’s hair. “You haven’t been to – ”</p><p>“No,” Grantaire cuts him off, sitting up abruptly. “He wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t.”</p><p>The last life, the last death, they’d been in Richmond. They’d had an apartment there for a year or so while Enjolras and Combeferre were studying law. And then, of course, there was some injustice, some wrong Enjolras had been set on righting. They’d yelled, and fought, and wound up on the wrong end of too many guns. Enjolras rallied everyone, said to <em>hold steady</em>, and Grantaire had thrown his arms in the air and snarled <em>so we’re all going to die young again so you can be a martyr? that’s bullshit, Enjolras, fuck you</em>, and then he’d taken several bullets to the back. The last thing he’d seen was the naked hurt in Enjolras’ eyes.</p><p>Grantaire still doesn’t know why Enjolras would be surprised, except maybe he does. Maybe it had been years, lives, since Grantaire had let that kind of venom out, and never so close to the end. Maybe they hadn’t had a huge, blowout fight in so long, it took Enjolras aback. Maybe that was a moment when Enjolras had needed Grantaire with him, instead of against him.</p><p>Maybe that is the reason Enjolras hasn’t come to the Musain. To Grantaire.</p><p>Joly’s quiet for a moment. There’s a flush of alcohol high in his cheeks, and he looks like he wants to say something, is sorting through words in his head until he finds the right ones. Eventually, he threads his fingers through Grantaire’s and simply asks, “So what now?”</p><p>Grantaire stares down at their clasped hands. He’s numb. “I’m done, Joly. I can’t do this anymore.”</p><p>Joly sighs heavily and pulls Grantaire against him. He doesn’t look surprised, like he’d known all along Grantaire would come to this conclusion. Perhaps he had. That’s the problem with knowing someone for centuries.</p><p>“You’ve done your part, R. You need rest sometimes too,” Joly says into Grantaire’s hair. “He’ll show up,” he adds in an encouraging whisper, but they both know it’s an empty comfort.</p><p>Either Enjolras will come back, or he won’t, but there’s nothing any of them can do about it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grantaire is twenty years, two months, and thirteen days old, and he is tired. He stares across the emptying Musain, watching Musichetta run a damp rag over the bar top as the last of the patrons spill out into the street. It’s the height of summer, and night had fallen hours ago. Musichetta flips the sign on the door and casts a glance back at Grantaire, who sits by himself at his table, nursing his third or fourth or fifth glass of Beaujolais.</p><p>“You staying down here for now?” she asks.</p><p>Grantaire nods absently, swirling his glass and watching as the legs drain slowly, wine-red waves drifting back to sea. “I’ll get the lights and lock the door when I head out.” </p><p>Musichetta moves toward the stairs, stopping to squeeze his shoulder as she passes. “Make sure you get some rest tonight, okay?”</p><p>“I’m sure I’ll pass out somewhere eventually,” he says with a crooked grin.</p><p>“R!”</p><p>“I’ll be fine, Chetta. I haven’t done anything extremely stupid lately.”</p><p>Musichetta huffs. “That just means you’re due for it,” she mutters, but she turns to go, bidding him goodnight as she climbs the stairs to spend the night with the loves of her lives.</p><p>Grantaire can’t begrudge her that, he <em>can’t</em>, but Musichetta leaves and takes with her any good cheer he had left, and the jealousy twists like an ugly snake in his gut. He’s tired, and just past tipsy, and he desperately wants to go home, but he doesn’t know where that is. Grantaire went across the world and back, to all their little cottages and sparse apartments and now-vintage houses, and somehow came back more lost than before.</p><p>For the first time in nearly two years, he considers returning to Vermont. His mother has been hinting that she wants him to visit for months, and his father keeps asking about college in an increasingly resigned tone that Grantaire has become intimately familiar with over the years, the lives. Maybe this time, he will go to school and finish and graduate and then do something, anything. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, but he can’t just idle here with a black pit in his chest and waste away to nothing. Well, he could. Has thought about it more than once, but he won’t put the others through that.</p><p>Grantaire finishes his wine and wanders behind the bar in search of something stronger. He was only mostly joking when he told Musichetta that sleep would come in the form of drunken unconsciousness. He <em>probably</em> won’t reach that point, but he’s so unmoored, and he knows from experience that the sharp burn of liquor is grounding.</p><p>He reaches up for one of the nicer whiskeys because if he’s going to get belligerently drunk, he might as well enjoy himself. The bottle is just out of his reach, and he knows Musichetta has a step stool somewhere for this reason, but he doesn’t feel like looking. He’s up on his toes, fingertips brushing the label, when the door creaks open.</p><p>“We’re closed,” Grantaire calls, not bothering to turn around as he finally gets his hand around the bottle and starts pulling it to the edge of the shelf.</p><p>“If you drop that, Musichetta will make you pay for it.”</p><p>The bottle crashes to the ground.</p><p>“Well, now she’ll definitely make you pay for it.”</p><p>Shards of glass and far too much really expensive booze cover the floor as Grantaire whirls around because it <em>can’t be</em>, right? The voice is a bit different, this time, but the exasperated fondness is something Grantaire knows deep within his bones. The man’s face is a bit more angular than last time, his hair more copper than gold, but he grins and it’s so <em>Enjolras</em> that Grantaire nearly sobs, and every dark thing that’s been prowling around in his body since he turned eighteen is finally quiet.</p><p>Grantaire flings himself around the bar, nearly falling as his shoes slide on whiskey and glass, and all but throws himself at Enjolras. Enjolras catches him with practiced ease, arms coming up to circle Grantaire and pull him close. Enjolras is warm, and there is an echoing warmth in Grantaire’s chest, and now Grantaire is sobbing, but it’s cathartic. A release, an anchor.</p><p>Enjolras ghosts his fingers down Grantaire’s cheek. “I got your letter.”</p><p>Grantaire chokes on a laugh. “Which one?”</p><p>“Connecticut,” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire is grateful that he doesn’t ask about the others. “My family was on a trip, and I saw it poking out from the branches of a bush. I didn’t know what it meant, then, but as soon as I realized, I took the first plane here.”</p><p>“You’re late,” Grantaire mumbles.</p><p>Enjolras winces. “I know, and I’m so sorry. After everything last time, I wound up unresponsive in the hospital for some length of time. I wasn’t really aware of it, just that there was somewhere I needed to be, but I guess the reincarnation couldn’t account for modern medicine.”</p><p>Grantaire pulls back enough to fully see Enjolras’ face. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, “but Enjolras, I need you to know how sorry I am about Richmond. I shouldn’t have said that; you didn’t deserve it.”</p><p>“No,” Enjolras says slowly, “but I also owe you an apology. Our lives have not been easy, and I should have been more aware of how you felt, should have asked before I put us in a dangerous situation. I care about you, and I care what you think, and it wasn’t fair of me to do that.”</p><p>There are fresh tears gathering at the corners of Grantaire’s eyes as he pulls Enjolras into a desperate kiss. He’s <em>missed</em> him, and he was so scared of losing him entirely. Grantaire’s never been one for deities, but he sends a litany of thanks into the universe as he holds Enjolras tight.</p><p>Later, Bossuet will stumble down the stairs to investigate the crash to see Enjolras and Grantaire sitting against the bar, talking quietly, fingers tangled together. He’ll sweep them both into a crushing hug before clambering up the stairs to wake Joly and Musichetta and sending a message to everyone else.</p><p>Courfeyrac will stumble through the door first, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Combeferre will be just behind, and one by one their friends will gather. Grantaire will help sweep broken glass from the floor, and Musichetta will forgive him the expensive whiskey, just this once. They’ll push all the tables together, just like old times, and they’ll talk. Grantaire will half-describe his jaunt around the world, and Enjolras will explain that the remembering wasn’t the issue, it was the dying on time.  As the first light of dawn streams through the windows, Enjolras’ jet lag will catch up with him.</p><p>Grantaire and Enjolras will stumble into their apartment as the sun lights up the walls a dazzling gold, and all the knots that have twisted themselves up in Grantaire’s chest will finally, finally loosen. They’ll sleep and wake, and sleep and wake, and live their lives together, as always.</p><p>For now, Grantaire draws back, tracing his thumb across Enjolras’ cheekbone. Enjolras leans into the touch with a tired smile, and it’s enough to send Grantaire’s heart skittering. He’s warm, and whole, and everything he was missing as he crossed the globe is here before him. Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’ and breathes.</p><p>“Welcome home, Enjolras.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Work written for the 2020 Enjoltaire Games</p><p><b>Team:</b> Grantaire<br/><b>Theme:</b> home<br/><b>Prompt:</b> Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? – Stephanie Perkins</p></blockquote></div></div>
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